


Bored.

by orphan_account



Series: Two Brothers Holmes [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Childhood, Corporal Punishment, Drinking, F/M, Gen, Hairbrush, Kidlock, Naughty, Non Consensual Corporal Punishment, Party, Spanking, Teenlock, smacking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 09:36:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3405827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is stuck in a caravan in the snow with his family and he is so incredibly BORED!<br/>Warning - there is a small side plot with an abused six year old in it. Please do not read if it will trigger you, I wouldn't want to upset anyone x</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bored.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I should clarify, this work is spanking-central. I had an interesting discussion on Twitter the other day about people who read this type of fanfiction and avoid the spankings...these are written specifically with spanking in mind. If you enjoy that type of story, my favourites I've ever read are the 'St Clare' ones which can be found on Pablo and Mija's Treehouse. If you don't like spanking stories, please don't read this and leave a comment or otherwise contact me telling me about how I'm promoting child abuse. I do not promote real corporal punishment against real children, this is a work of fiction.

“Hey, you, are you coming down to the party later?”

Sherlock blinked, and stared at the boy opposite him. The whole Holmes family were on holiday in the depths of Scotland (in a caravan in _winter_ , for Christ's sake), and after a rather bad snow flurry the whole of the campsite were stuck on site for a few days, with the roads being totally inaccessible. People in tents – who really, Sherlock thought, deserved all the cold they got if they went to Scotland in the winter – had been relocated to the nearest B&B's wherever possible, while some people had been forced to let strangers stay in their caravan with them if they had a spare bed or two. The Holmes caravan, however, was totally packed, every bed taken by one of the family members. Mycroft, despite being twenty, had consented to come along, while thirteen year old Sherlock had whined and complained until they arrived, and plenty afterwards.

“What party?”

“My brother and his mates are staying in one of those holiday homes in town, and they're having a party tonight. We're trying to get a few other people to come along.”

Sherlock took a moment to contemplate his choices. If he didn't go, it'd be another evening shuffling between the small social room at the campsite where all the small children would be and his own caravan, where his temper was slowly fraying with his family. If he told his family that he was going to the social room, he might get an hour or two in a new scenario with new people, enough to stimulate him...

“Sure.” Sherlock casually replied, pulling up the 'cool' persona that he'd invented for himself when he was seven or eight, just in case he ever needed to infiltrate enemy camps. Jack Murphy, football fan and idiot. If Jack had been a real person, he'd have been exactly who Sherlock would have hated. However, Jack had come in useful before, as a way to get information from cool kids who didn't really know him, as well as to manipulate people for fun.

“Me and some of the lads are gonna come by here at about half seven...be here and we'll show you the way.”

Sherlock nodded, pushing a hand into his pocket in an attempt to live up to his fake, imaginary personality. “Cool. What's your name?”

“I'm Sean Davies. You?”

“Jack Murphy.”

Sean nodded, raked a hand through his perfect cool-kid quiff and left the then-empty social room, pulling his coat more tightly around him as he went. The two feet of snow were really most irritating. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. He'd escape the terrible little campsite, even if only for an hour or so. Brilliant.

* * *

 

“Mother, is it alright for me to go down to the social room?” Sherlock asked at twenty past seven, stretching and reaching for his shoes. Mrs Holmes nodded, glowering at the paper in her hands.

“Be back by nine, dear – and wear your coat! If you don't wear your coat out in this weather once more I shall staple it to your back!”

Sherlock grinned and pulled on the coat, buttoning it after his mother looked up and shot a humorous glare at him. As he left the caravan, hissing a little at the intense cold and the high levels of snow, Mr Holmes turned to Mycroft, who was working feverishly away at what he referred to as 'government stuff'.

“At about half eight, will you go and check on him for me, love?”

Mycroft sighed heavily. “Certainly mother.”

Sherlock, totally unaware of this development, dragged himself through the snow, yanking his coat off as he went and resting it over a fence from which he could easily collect it from later. It was a horrible duffel affair, and to truly get into the role of 'Jack Murphy', he couldn't wear it. Incredibly aware of how ridiculous be was being, Sherlock wriggled his shoulders uncomfortably, trying to ignore the self hatred which was bubbling up. Pretending to be cool just to escape his boring, cold little caravan for a while? Ridiculous! Idiotic!

“Hey, Jack's here!”

Sherlock had seen the group of lads around the camp site a few times, playing football or doing something else equally as daft, and he'd noticed them whispering about him a few times. He had, however, never spoken to them before the few words shared earlier on that day. Really, it was all too hasty, he had to back out...

“Hello.”

“Thought you weren't coming for a minute!” the boy addressing Jack was the same one from earlier – Sam? Simon? Sherlock sighed.

“I didn't either.”

Sherlock's odd comment caused the gaggle of boys that had been waiting at the front of the social room to be silent for a few minutes, oddly uncomfortable and awkward, before the boy from earlier ('Sean!' Sherlock suddenly realised, glad that he had had the self awareness not to shout out the answer when it came to him after a few moments) grinned.

“We've seen you about a bit, we wanted to get to know you. Come on then, guys – the party awaits!”

* * *

 

As they walked, Sherlock quickly became very sick of the boys. Evidently they were going as stir crazy as him, stuck in close quarters with their families, and so had invited him as well as another unknown boy called Harry along to the party just to try and find something new to talk about.

“So, Jack, how much do you drink?”

Sherlock internally rolled his eyes at the stupid, faux-macho question from one of the mass of thirteen to sixteen year old boys surrounding him, all of whom seemed to have blended into one ultra-consciousness of idiocy.

“Oh, loads.” he smoothly replied, smiling a little at how easy it was to pretend to be cool. Just answer stupidly to every question, and he'd get someone punching him in the shoulder (which was apparently 'friendly' if it came from one of these people) and a meaningless compliment flung at him. After what seemed like an hour, but in reality was only a few minutes trudging through the thick snow, Sean came to a halt and everyone else stopped behind him.

“This is where my bro is staying.”

Sherlock could have vomited at the use of the word 'bro' instead of 'brother', but held it back and entered the house.

Madness. Insanity.

Music was pumping out from one of the rooms  (' Girl, close your eyes, let that rhythm get into you'), and the smell of something sweet and muggy filled the air. Bodies were  _ everywhere _ – couples making out on the stairs, people dancing, girls fixing their makeup in the mirrors, boys chugging back beer as if their lives depended on it...

It was a  _ goldmine  _ of analysis and deduction. Sherlock drifted off dreamily, ignoring the loud thumping music and the people around him, and looked out for a target. If nothing, it'd be a stimulating night.

* * *

 

Mycroft quietly grumbled to himself as he forced his way through the snow to the social room, cursing Sherlock for going out. Why couldn't the little idiot have just stayed in and read or something? Then again, Sherlock cooped up was like putting a bee in a jar and shaking it – the bee was very angry and buzzed about an awful lot. Ever since their 'holiday' had been extended due to the dangerous snow and the fact that they simply couldn't get home, he'd been fidgety and annoying, pacing from one end of the caravan to the other again and again, occasionally stopping to whine about being stuck there. Having to drag out and check on the brat was probably better than being cooped in with him.

“Sherlock?”

Mycroft stopped abruptly when he entered the social room and saw that it was empty except for one small girl. The girl looked up at his word and tipped her head questioningly to the side, her clear blue eyes widening.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Have you seen my brother? Tall, lanky, black curly hair.”

The girl had a penetrating stare for a six or seven year old, and as Mycroft looked back he noticed a light purple bruise around her eye. “He might be with my brother.” she eventually concluded, her finger ghosting over her mouth and the bruise subconsciously.

“Who's your brother?”

“Sean. And Patrick. Patrick and his friends are staying in a house in town because of all the snow, and I think Sean and some of the other big big boys – not as big as you – were going to see them tonight.”

Mycroft groaned, but noticed that the girl immediately looked alarmed. “Do you know where this house is?”

She nodded vigorously. “I was staying with Patrick, but he didn't want me there, so he sent me to stay with Sean again...but Sean doesn't want me either, so I've been sleeping in here.”

“Where are your mother and father?”

“Mammy and daddy don't exactly know where we are, Patrick's and his friends and Sean and his friends were going on holiday, and one of Patrick's _really_ big friends put me in the car too.”

Mycroft shook his head at the trainwreck that was this little girl's life. Parents who obviously didn't keep a close eye on their daughter and actively allowed their sons to run about Britain, abusive brother and even more abusive friends of the brother.

“Would you mind showing me the house?” Mycroft asked, forcing his voice to a gentle lull that he usually only adopted when with his young cousins, and then only at the insistence of his mother (“Your normal voice makes them cry, Mikey!”).

“I can show you.”

The girl stood up a little unsteadily, her thin legs wavering. 

“Do you have a coat?”

She shook her head, tucking a long strand of grubby blonde hair behind her ear. With a heavy sigh, Mycroft pulled off his own coat and then his jumper and passed the warm, woolly jumper to the girl before returning his coat. She stared blankly at him. Another sigh, and he pulled it on over her head, before picking her up and carrying her from the room.

* * *

 

The directions given by the strange little girl (“My name's Dodie.” she'd confided) weren't the best, but eventually Mycroft heard the throbbing bassline of loud music and followed it.

“Is this the house?” he asked her, pulling his jumper more tightly around her. She nodded.

“I'm going to take you to the police station first, Dodie, so that-” Mycroft's slightly patronising words were cut off by a screaming cry.

“No! No! I haven't been bad, don't take me to the police!”

“Dodie, I'm taking you so that they can get you home – you haven't done anything wrong!”

Mycroft helplessly held the small girl as she cried, continuing to walk further into the small town in the hopes that there  _ would  _ be a police station. Eventually, her crying lessened to a dull sob, the type of sob that children carry on with minutes after being comforted, a residue from their strong emotions.

“Why are you so afraid of the police? I mean, it's a very healthy attitude to have, but why?”

Mycroft liked children. He'd never admit it, but he liked their strange intelligence-come-supreme-dumbness, their mix of curiosity and ignorance. 

“Patrick's friend told me that if I ever told anyone what we did, I'd go to prison and I'd be locked away in a tower forever and ever.”

Just as Mycroft saw the police station, Dodie suddenly relaxed into his arms. “ Dodie, don't worry. They'll take care of you and get you home.”

* * *

 

Meanwhile, Sherlock was rapidly becoming completely inebriated. While generally he could ignore the urges of his body, he  _ was  _ only human, and a thirteen year old boy at that, and so when a busty girl a couple of years older than him approached him with a beer, he'd readily agreed, drinking it in one big gulp. More beers had followed, and a few shots, as well as some drunken kissing with the girl that he was  _ fairly  _ sure had occurred, but may have been his imagination.

“Jicky-Jacky-Jocky.” she slurred at him before giggling and kissing him again, darting her inexperienced tongue into his mouth and swirling like a washing machine. Sherlock was too drunk to care, too drunk to feel clever or important or disgusted. He was just aware that the girl (badly) kissing him was insanely hot, and his body very much wanted him to honk her boob. So he did.

The kissing stopped. A moment later, a burning white pain struck his right cheek.

“Did you just touch my boob, you creep?” she shouted inordinately loudly, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him hard, much like the masters at school. Grinning, he shook his head.

“N-no, it was someone coming past!”

“Oh. Okay then.”

The kissing resumed. There'd be time to feel guilty about his deceit when he was sober. Right then, all he wanted was for the  _ smoking  _ girl attached to his tongue to carry on kissing him. After a few moments, however, a hard hand on his shoulder distracted him. Pulling away from her, he turned and found himself staring his brother in the face, while the girl yanked at his shoulder and begged him to continue kissing.

“You are in an  _ incredible _ amount of trouble.” he hissed, before pushing Sherlock towards the door.

* * *

 

“Where's your coat?” Mycroft demanded as they struggled down the snowy lane, Sherlock giggling and shivering simultaneously.

“Dunno.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Dunno.”

Mycroft was absolutely  _ furious _ . Sick of the one word answers, he grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder once more and whizzed him round, landing two stinging slaps on the seat of his jeans before turning him again. “I will not ask you again. Where. Is. Your. Coat?”

Sherlock took a moment to right himself, glowering at Mycroft for the smacks. “I put it on a place. A placey-place. Of places.”

More smacks were about to come, before Mycroft realised that Sherlock was so smashed that he couldn't help it. They could find the coat tomorrow. For now, he needed to get his brother back in one piece. Not allowing his mind to slip back to Dodie and her piteous crying when he'd left her in the police station (with his jumper, he realised), he propelled Sherlock to walk faster through the snow, gripping his T-shirt tightly so that the little idiot didn't fall over.

“Tomorrow, you're going to be in terrible trouble, and you're going to deserve it all, you idiot child.”

Sherlock nodded agreeably. “My coat  _ will  _ be cross, yes.”

* * *

 

His head was  _ burning _ . Blinking his eyes open, Sherlock was glad to find that the room was quiet and dark, and after fumbling, he found a glass of water on the side. As he drained it, he contemplated the previous night, and blanched as he remembered snippets. Draining his first bottle of beer...kissing that silly girl... _ Mycroft _ . Oh Christ. He was definitely in trouble. As he realised this, the bedroom door opened and there stood Mr Holmes, looking saddened.

“Get up, Sherlock, it's breakfast time.”

In his pyjamas, Sherlock slowly followed his father, focusing on his inevitable impending punishment. It'd be a bad one...the spoon, maybe the hairbrush, maybe even the  _ cane _ . No. Sherlock quickly dismissed the cane – his mother hadn't brought it with her, and she wouldn't leave his punishment until they got back from the holiday, whenever that would be. Mycroft and Mrs Holmes were already sat at the table, plates of toast in front of them, ready to eat. Sherlock slipped into his normal place, and breakfast began.

“I am  _ incredibly  _ disappointed in you, Sherlock. Drinking, lying...you're in big trouble.”

The scolding words from his mother were spoken softly, and his mother truly did sound disappointed, not angry. Sherlock felt a tiny kernel of regret at his actions, but tried to dismiss it – he'd done it to curb his boredom, he hadn't meant to cause any harm.

“Sorry, mother.”

“Mycroft, I'm rather cross with you, too.”

Mycroft choked on his toast but looked obligingly at his mother. “Why, mother?”

“You went straight off to that party to get Sherlock without telling us where you were going first – you were gone for over an hour! You have no idea how worried we were! If you weren't twenty, you'd have already gone over my knee by now, and I've half a mind to spank you anyway!”

Sherlock couldn't stop himself from grinning at how shocked Mycroft looked.

“No, mother, you don't need to _ spank  _ me, I'm twenty, and I really don't think-”

“Young man, if I were you I'd keep quiet. You're going to be punished, just probably not with a spanking. Consider yourself lucky.”

Mycroft sent a furious glance in Sherlock's direction at the news that he was going to be punished in some way, but continued with his breakfast.

“Sherlock.” Now Mr Holmes spoke, staring at his youngest son. Sherlock looked up, all hint of a grin gone from his face.

“Yes, father?”

“You scared us terribly. If you were  _ so  _ bored, or whatever it was that inspired this escapade, you could have gone for a walk, or we could have gone for a meal today so that you could people-watch. You didn't need to lie to us like this.”

A squirm ran through Sherlock, and the kernel of regret exploded into guilt. “I'm sorry. I really am sorry.”

Mrs Holmes took a bite of toast, before speaking slowly. “We're...we're going to have to think very carefully about what punishment you get, because this is very serious. For now, we'd like you to stay in your room once you've finished your breakfast.”

“Yes, mother.”

* * *

 

Mycroft was outraged when his mother told him that with the exception of work, he was grounded for two weeks when they got back. “Mother, I am  _ twenty _ , be reasonable.”

“You live at home, and so you follow our rules. You terrified us, Mikey, and you deserve to be punished. If you don't want to follow what myself and your father say, you can move out.”

Mycroft nodded, sucking his teeth. “Mother, I need to go out! I have to go and...buy things! And I run errands, too.”

One of Mrs Holmes's eyebrows quirked. “You have three choices – accept that when we're back, you're grounded, move out, or I'll cane you when we get back. Your choice.”

Eyes wide, Mycroft swallowed. “I'll take the grounding, mother.”

Mrs Holmes nodded, before hugging her son. “Good boy, Mikey. You did well with that girl yesterday, too – you just need to remember to check in.”

* * *

 

When Sherlock's bedroom door opened once more, this time at the hands of Mrs Holmes, he glanced up from the book he'd been staring at. In one hand, she held her flat wooden hairbrush.

“Stand up, Sherlock.”

Sherlock obeyed, and Mrs Holmes quickly took his place sat in the centre of the bed, holding the hairbrush in her right hand. “Sherlock, you scared us, and you lied to us, and you can't possibly get away with that. Once this is over, the slate will be clean, but we need to do this. Trousers and underwear down and over my lap, please.”

“Both down, mother?” Sherlock groaned. Mrs Holmes rolled her eyes. 

“Sherlock, you are thirteen years old and you got completely drunk yesterday, as well as lying to us and scaring us, and cheeking Mycroft. You can't possibly say that you don't deserve it.”

Glumly, Sherlock lowered his trousers and underwear and quickly bent over his mother's lap, his body stretched out across his uncomfortable caravan bed. 

_ Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! _

The smacks were sharp, and Sherlock began to wriggle almost immediately, a warm sting spreading across his bottom as well as a deeper burn. They turned slightly pink instantly, in an oval pattern where the brush had slammed down. Faster smacks followed, peppering his bottom with all sting and no real pain or hurt. The type of spank where you could keep spanking and spanking for ages and ages with nothing but a red bum...Sherlock groaned as he realised the implication of this. He was on about two quick, sharp spanks a second, each one making him squirm a little more as he clutched his hands together over his mother's knee. After a minute of quick smacks, his mother briefly stopped to rub his back.

“Good boy. You're doing very very well, Sherlock.”

He didn't appreciate the patronising tone to her voice, but as the smacks got even faster and spread down to his sensitive sit spot and upper thighs, he appreciated the kind concern.

_ Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! _

Four more slower, harder smack, each one stinging and burning a little more across his warm bottom. He'd been across her lap for about two minutes, not that long in the grand scheme of spankings, but plenty long enough for him to suddenly begin sniffling, his bottom stinging and smarting dreadfully.

“We're done, Sherlock. You're a good boy.”

Sherlock sighed with relief and relaxed a little over his mother's lap, feeling the heat radiate from his certainly-red bottom. It was over. He was forgiven.

Parties were not for him.

* * *

 

_ Dear Mycroft, _

_ I'm Dodie and I'm seven and twenty two days ago you took me to the police. Auntie Penny, who is looking after me, said I should send back your jumper. Patrick's nasty friend might be going to prison himself! I'm very very good. Auntie Penny is very nice and I get three whole meals every day and she even plays with me. Thank you. _

_ Yours, _

_ Dodie _

 

Mycroft smiled at the letter which had been slipped into the thin parcel, along with the familiar mustard coloured jumper. He only had a day or two of his grounding left, and the letter and parcel were exactly what he needed to raise his spirits. Pulling out the jumper, he grinned as he saw a mini size Mars bar underneath, slightly squashed but otherwise perfect.

Dodie deserved her new Auntie Penny. 

 

 


End file.
